I sat stiffly on the examination table, the crinkling paper beneath me only adding to my anxiety. My stomach churned as I locked eyes with the OB-GYN, and my heart sank. I knew what was coming.
“The test is positive. You’re pregnant.”
The look on my face must have clued her in that “Congratulations” felt a bit misplaced, so we lingered in silence, my mind racing. I had just turned 21 — far too young, I thought. I was overwhelmed with typical fears: I was too immature, too selfish, too clueless about parenting. The world was a harsh place for children; I didn’t want kids. I felt irresponsible and terrified of being a terrible mother. But there was another layer to my fear — a much deeper, more shameful one — I had no idea who the father was.
It took years for me to articulate these feelings, and even now, they don’t flow effortlessly. The shame I faced was challenging to confront, especially since societal stigma loomed large. Paternity tests often bring to mind sensationalized portrayals on shows like “Maury,” reinforcing a stereotype I didn’t want to embody. I always believed that I would someday share this secret part of my life — after my parents had passed, when the involved parties were less likely to read about it, when the world was kinder, or when I felt braver.
Yet, here I am, writing this anyway.
I felt a responsibility to speak out. As a feminist, I yearned to dismantle the barriers that confine us — the slut-shaming, the culture of silence surrounding issues like mine. I didn’t want others in my position to feel the isolation and shame I experienced. I realized I had done nothing to share my story in a meaningful way.
Often, people envision low-income, less-educated individuals — particularly people of color — as those grappling with paternity uncertainties. I want to dispel that myth. I want to engage in brave conversations and challenge misconceptions. My experience as an educated, middle-class white woman from a “good Christian home” shows that this can happen to anyone. The very faith that once comforted me turned on me, judging my choices. Sharing my story could spark the vital conversations that need to happen. But still, I hesitated.
What if my daughter reads this one day? How would she react? From the moment I chose to become a mother, her feelings became my priority. Would she think, “My mother didn’t want me”? Would she feel ashamed of me, as I had once felt about myself? Or might she view me as a courageous woman sharing her journey to challenge societal norms? I hope for the latter, but I can’t be sure. More likely, she’ll be grossed out by anything hinting at her mother’s past and stop reading altogether.
This is part of her narrative too, but it’s just that — a part that she carries no responsibility for, one that does not define her worth. This was my mess, my story to tell, and the choice to share it ultimately rests with me. So here I am, sharing it today. It is still terrifying; I feel much like I did in that OB-GYN’s office — alone. But the “me” of today recognizes I’m not alone. It happens more frequently than one might assume, yet no one speaks about it seriously. Today, I’m going to be that voice.
As I waited for the ultrasound, I watched happy, expectant mothers caress their rounded bellies, radiating joy. A Bible sat glaringly on a shelf, scrutinizing me.
I stared blankly at the doctor as she laid out my options. Nodding along, I left the office clutching a black-and-white image of my “baby,” a small, unrecognizable shape. My drive to work felt surreal, and I suddenly found myself throwing up in the parking lot. The stress felt like fire coursing through my veins.
A whirlwind of thoughts surged through my mind. The simplest answer was to terminate the pregnancy — a choice I wrestled with. Yet, deep down, I knew I would carry the baby. I couldn’t walk away from that responsibility.
But then there was the reality of not knowing who my child’s father was. I turned to Google, desperate for a hopeful narrative. Surely someone else had been through this? Instead, I stumbled upon judgmental comments like:
- “that’s trashy af”
- “Awful parents. Just terrible humans.”
- “Unless you were raped or a prostitute, how can you not know who the father is?”
I was already spiraling into self-loathing, and now I felt attacked by strangers online. Each harsh comment only deepened my self-hatred. I literally felt like I was at war with the world.
I briefly researched how to determine the conception date — a topic I probably should have understood better. I knew who I had been with and when, but without tracking my menstrual cycle, I was lost. In a month, I had navigated a week-long relationship, briefly dated someone new, attempted to revive an old romance, and started seeing someone else.
I had always been faithful in my relationships, so I never considered myself promiscuous. I justified my choices, but then I realized I didn’t owe anyone justification. Four weeks can feel like a lifetime during relationship transitions, and a lot had happened. My birth control had failed me, and now I found myself guessing who the potential father might be.
Option 1: Play a game of “eenie-meenie-miney-mo” to pick a father. That felt too low, even for me.
Option 2: The secretive route — avoid questions and make vague remarks. “The father? A good man, a solitary type…”
Option 3: Embrace honesty with everyone, despite the pain it would bring.
Honesty felt essential. My daughter deserved to know her father’s identity, and it would be selfish to deny her that part of her story. I envisioned her at 18, searching for answers I had hidden from her. I wanted to spare her the awkwardness of asking, “Excuse me, sir? Are you my father?”
Ultimately, my choices had shaped this situation, so it fell on me to provide the answers. I knew I would be a good mother because I prioritized her needs over my own.
I want to clarify: I have no regrets. I acknowledge that I was naive and irresponsible, but who isn’t at some point? I wish my daughter’s existence had been met with joy rather than the weight of my past mistakes. Yet, I adore her and cannot imagine life without her. I firmly believe that your sexual choices are personal and shouldn’t define your worth. Today, I feel no regret, just love and gratitude that what felt like “the worst thing” led to the best thing in my life.
When I returned to work, I tried to act normally, hiding behind a forced smile while taking orders and serving food. But my heart raced, and coworkers kept asking, “What’s wrong?” I wanted to scream, “My life has changed forever!” My manager noticed my distress and sent me home early. “You don’t look so good.”
I didn’t feel good. I wasn’t perfect. But I could be better. And I would be.
For those navigating similar circumstances, resources like Mayo Clinic’s guide on IVF and insights from Make a Mom can be incredibly helpful.